


Dawn Promises

by CassieIngaben



Category: Eastern Promises (2007), Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, M/M, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben
Summary: Promises are made, and promises are kept.
Relationships: Klaus von dem Eberbach/Dorian Red Gloria, Klaus von dem Eberbach/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13
Collections: From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges





	Dawn Promises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyonors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyonors/gifts).



> This story is very loosely inspired by _Eastern Promises_ , the 2007 movie with Viggo Mortensen and Vincent Cassel. More of a fusion than a crossover: I only took the overall movie setting and feel, and the visuals of a specific scene. Dub/con, questionable morals and difficult choices. 
> 
> Dedicated to Lyssa, who made me watch the movie.

## Promises Made

 _I loathe this type of mission_. Klaus shifted in his wicker armchair and pulled the girl closer. She moaned, opening her mouth for a wet, sloppy kiss. _How old is she—no, don't think of that, can't afford it. God._ Klaus shuddered. On the sofa closest to him, one of the youngest Russian conscripts went on butchering _Otchii Chorniye_. Loudly. On the right hand side of the shabby ballroom, girls danced to an entirely different, and indecipherable, rhythm. A bottle crashed to the floor, shattering in a thousand shards. _Shrapnel._

The girl's breasts were mere buds, no more raised than a man's, but butter-soft. She took Klaus's hand and dragged it over one. He grabbed reflexively and she yelped, then muttered something not quite in Russian. _Just off the boat from Chechnya._

Dmitry, the Russian Commander, came closer, waving unsteadily at Klaus. _Drunk on his feet, and him the highest in rank._ The girl wriggled in Klaus's lap, cutting his line of sight for a moment. He shifted her sideways, and looked up to find Dmitry standing over him.

The girl squirmed some more, then made a giggling comment, in Russian, on Klaus's lack of arousal. Dmitry looked on, eyes narrowed. "I know what you remember me. I saw photo of Iron Klaus once. He look a little like you." _So much for this stupid hairstyle. And my eyes are burning like hell from the contacts._

Dmitry went on. "And now girl says you must queer to still be like this"—he curved his raised pinkie expressively—"after she's working you. Everybody know Iron Klaus don't like women. And that thief is bitch in heat for him."

Snarling, Klaus grabbed the girl roughly by her narrow hips. "I like to take my time," he lied. "I'm not on a hair-trigger like you monkey-petters."

The Russian Commander spat on the floor. He grabbed his own girl, who'd been hanging inertly from his left arm, and shook her at Klaus. "Bullshit! Real man is always up for fast fuck. Why take time when you can do again every time you want? How many times you do in one night, eh?"

 _In for a lamb, in for a sheep._ Klaus bared his teeth in the palest travesty of a smile. "More than you, I'm sure."

Bellowing a few chosen insults in Russian, Dmitry pushed his girl aside and made as if to charge at Klaus—only to stop, a sly grimace invading his face. "Prove. Prove it to us here and now. Prove you not queer like Iron Klaus. Fuck her!"

Klaus glared. "I don't perform for an audience."

Dmitry spat on the floor again. "So you queer. Just like Iron Klaus. Curious. You believe in coincidence?"

 _Damn. Time to see my bluff._ Klaus stood up, grabbing his girl's wrists as she slid off his lap. "Fine. That sofa ok? This girl ok?"

Dmitry laughed. "Sofa ok. But this girl instead." He manhandled his own girl as she hummed and swayed dazedly, naked but for a short flouncy skirt and garters, and pushed her towards Klaus; then he stepped forward and grabbed the other one, unheeding of her pained protests. "Serves you well for badmouthing the men, Chechen bitch."

Klaus caught the new girl—Russian, no older than the other one, thinner and flatter, boyish. _The man is drunk all right to give me this one. Damn fucking idiot._ He pushed her onto one of the tawdry sofas strewn in the room's dimmer corners, shifting filthy pillows aside. The girl was barely reacting. _She's been here longer. High as a kite and completely out of it._ It took him a few tries to get her to stay on all fours, as she kept flopping flat on her belly and making a soft 'oops' sound. Dmitry laughed each damn time. _If he comes closer I'll brain him, mission or not._

She eventually got the gist, and held the position just long enough for Klaus to unzip his fly and brace his left knee on the sofa. Dmitry craned his neck, but the girl's hips, tiny as they were, hid just how unready Klaus was. He pushed her skirt out of the way with his right hand, holding her still with the left— _no tan line—_ then fumbled with her private parts. _God, she's not even wet_. Klaus fought a wave of revulsion, and spat on his free hand. Then he closed his eyes and squeezed his cock. _Think of him. His skin, his taste, what he sounds like when he comes_. Klaus's breath hitched. _How he feels inside me. How he licks my neck; my cock. His hand pulling my cock first, then fingering my arse. Pulling, pulling, pulling until I want to scream. Wish I could tell him what he does to me. What he is doing even now._ He moaned, half-hard, and spat on his hand again to wet it more. He pushed the girl closer to him, rubbing his cock's head against her arse, squeezing harder and faster. _Should be enough now._

Klaus opened his eyes, focusing on her backside as it swayed, Dmitry just a jeering blur in the background. _Fuck now. Angry later. Fuck._ Klaus flirted with the girl's pink arsehole until he felt she was about to keel over again, then shifted his cock forward, searching for that other opening. _Where is it? Ah. There. Thank God she's not that tight. Getting wet—just._ He crammed himself in, and closed his eyes again. _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't blow my cover. Sorry. Sorry, Dorian._ Dmitry hooted, and Klaus started to push. _I'll kill you for this, fucking Russian bastard. Slowly and with pleasure. Pleasure. Dorian. When he does this to me, ah, never know if it's going to be slow, or fast, or both—the feel of our balls slapping together, the feel of it. Nothing like this sucking gurgle. Solid. So good, almost painfully so. Like when he does me dry—says he loves how I come almost close to breaking. Doesn't know how close._

He kept going, a steady pounding pace on the outside, a hot tide of memories and wishes on the inside. The girl grew interested, then tired, then petulant. Harrowing. She was starting to dry up. _Come on Klaus. Come on. You've done harder things. It's just friction._ He forced himself to a faster pace, going in deeper, stronger. _Was she crying now? Don't think. Just get this done with._ So sorry. _Friction_. _His lips on my cock. His tongue in my arse. His mouth swallowing my balls as his hands milk me dry. Squeezes me, I can feel his hands, so strong yet so soft. Friction. A conditioned reflex. How he calls my name as he comes. How he smiles at me when I do. When I come. Come. Coming. Ahhh!_ Gott! _Dorian. So sorry…_

Klaus stiffened, face scrunching in pained pleasure, and slowly spilled, pulling out in time to give Dmitry a show, and decorating the girl's arse with a pearlescent festoon of come. _Angel tears, Dorian says. River pearls. Sweets for the sweet._ The girl collapsed, spent, sobbing with nerves. Klaus stood and forced himself inside his trousers, wincing from residual arousal. He looked up, meeting Dmitry's eyes. The Russian flinched, then pulled himself together and started to clap slowly. "Well done, Comrade Helmut. Well done. You East Germans, slow but sure—like good diesel truck." He laughed, took a good pull from his ever-present bottle, and walked away.

Klaus burned a stare into the retreating back. _Laugh, drink, and be merry. You are dead. Before this same dawn. I promise._

## Promises Kept

Dorian looked up from perusing the new blueprints for the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Lille. "Yes, Gordon?"

The old man creaked into a respectful bow. "Milord, Major von dem Eberbach is at the door. Shall I let him into the library? Or should I bring supper forward and—dear me, Milord! Careful!" But Dorian was already bounding through the corridor and down the main staircase before his butler could recover from their near collision.

Before the last bend in the stairs, Dorian forced himself to stop and take a deep breath. He shook his mane free of the silk scarf loosely bundling it in a low ponytail. _Hair_ : _check_. Then he looked at his unbleached linen trousers and tunic, mouth turning downwards. _Clothes: frumpy but passable for a day at home. And I could wear a sofa print muumuu and he'd never even understand the difference, anyway_. Finally he willed his shoulders to relax, his hands to unclench, his lips to smile. _Check. He is only four weeks late this time, after all_.

Dorian sauntered down the last flight of stairs and into the entrance hall. "Darl—"

Silence thunked down on them.

Klaus shrugged, and carefully lit a cigarette with his left hand. "It looks much worse than it is."

The attempt at reassurance was more worrying than the way Klaus's face looked. And that was saying something. _Did they work him over with a meat tenderiser?_

Dorian tossed his hair back. "If looks were the reason for your staying away, I could have just lent you my Covermark foundation, darling; it's fabulous. And I'd even have allowed you to turn the lights off this time, if you'd asked nicely."

"Don't be a complete cretin before supper. I just got out of hospital and I'm famished. That scarecrow butler of yours was blathering about food." Klaus walked round Dorian, limping towards the dining room.

Dorian was about done counting to twenty in Portuguese when Gordon shuffled in. "Milord, I believe supper is ready to be served. Should I go through the menu? We have soup—"

"Fine, whatever. And fried potatoes." _Bad boy, Dorian, taking it out on the help._ He forced a smile. "Thank you, Gordon. You and everybody else can retire after food is served. I won't be needing anything until tomorrow. Late breakfast; buffet, I think."

* * *

Dorian turned off the main lights, and threw a rose-coloured scarf over the bedside lamp. Then he turned to Klaus, who as usual was pouring them drinks. Taking his brandy snifter with one hand, the other skimming over Klaus's lips, Dorian whispered: "Are you sure this is a good idea? You've been hurt, should take it easy—"

"Don't be an idiot. If I didn't want to, I'd have said."

Dorian stared into Klaus's eyes, then nodded. He gave a little sigh, barely more than a throaty breath. "Entirely too many clothes for a summer evening. But it's fun to remove them."

Klaus nodded and downed his schnapps in one go, then loosened his tie. "Come, then."

Old joking rejoinder skipped—Klaus was obviously in one of his solemn _Sturm und Drang_ moods—Dorian put his own glass down and went for the horrid jacket. _I will never cease to wonder how he can unerringly find all of the rare lapses of taste by the best_ couturiers _. Now, how to do it. Slow and sweet, I think. He must be sore, poor love. Not that I'd get him to admit it with pliers._

Snapping into sudden action, Klaus grabbed a handful of Dorian's tunic, looking for its fastenings.

"Here, love. Buttons to the side. Mind the cuffs, there's a ribbon. Yes, like that, but slower. It's not neoprene."

Klaus grunted, and went on pulling and pushing hurriedly, so that Dorian had to stop working on Klaus's shirt and extricate both of them from his own clothes. _I wish he would talk to me when he's like this. But I'll have to wait for later._

"There, it's done. The trousers have buttons too. Ooh, that's nice, do it again on purpose?"

Soon Dorian was naked and shivering—but not with cold. "And now I get to unwrap my present. Happy un-birthday to me." He hummed a few bars of the song low in his throat, and went back to Klaus's shirt. _It's so peaceful to work on the buttons one by one. I approve of tight eyelets._

"And what do we have he—KLAUS! Oh, God!" Dorian let go as if burned.

Klaus grabbed his wrist punishingly and pulled him close again. "I told you, it's better than it looks. You know I scar badly."

Dorian fished for some composure through inanities. "Actually, they get so cord-like and purple because you scar too well: too fast. Always the overachiever. It's good you stay out of the sun so much." _Oh my love! What did they do to you this time? What barbarian can do this on purpose? Your fine, creamy skin. Don't whine, Dorian. Don't scare him off—he always thinks I am judging his body like a prize quarter of meat._

"Whatever. Let's go to bed, my back's killing me." Klaus dragged Dorian by his arm, manhandled him onto the bed, then threw himself over him.

"Mine own, I believe it would be easier if you'd let go of my arm… MMMMMH!" _He's hard already?_

Klaus complied, which did make it easier for him to turn Dorian on his front and raise him on all fours, rubbing his cock over the displayed rump. "Lube." He ordered.

Dorian was so wrapped up into his skyrocketing excitement that he fumbled with the drawer for much too long, while Klaus started a light, staccato rubbing that sent Dorian into moaning. _Oh God, I can't even remember when we last did it this way. OH! But his balls feel full..._ "Here, my love. Want me to help with it?"

Klaus wordlessly grabbed the proffered jar, and scooped a large dollop of scented cream. Pushing the splayed cheeks further apart, which prompted more throaty moans, he slapped lube on the clenching arsehole, then started working his way in.

"I assume that was a no—OH! More lube; there's none on you… Oh… " Dorian exhaled. "Ah… Lean forward? Yes… Pull now… Wait! Ah… Yesss, now push again…"

 _His fingers are_ cold _! So much for slow and sweet. Relax, Dorian. Breathe. Ah, I'm not used to this. And I wish he'd touch me. Talk to me with his body; we both know he can do that, if he lets himself._

Before he was fully in, Klaus started a thrust so imperious that Dorian just folded his arms and braced his head against the pillow. _Oh God, I'll come too soon!_

Dorian kept up his breathless patter as his excitement mounted. "Pull on my balls—give me your hand, here, like this. Harder. Make me yelp. Make me, AH, yes, squeeze now; both of them at once, mmmh… I mean yours too, reach back, they're—AH! Yes!"

_I'm dripping so much, I'll soak the mattress. Like tears. He does that to me. Klaus. He's so big, inside me. So hard. Ah! He's making that noise now—my heart will explode. And so will I—"_

"I'm almost there… Klaus, my love, deeper, deeper!"

Klaus leaned forward at last— _I can feel his scars on my back, ohgod, ohgod—_ and bit Dorian on his left shoulder. Dorian shuddered, then froze—and came and came and came, screaming his throat raw. He never even knew how Klaus suffered through his own coming, cursing and spasming helplessly.

* * *

_Dear God. Did I pass out? He's crushing me. I can't believe he hasn't even touched my cock once. Didn't happen since—since. He could make me come just by looking at me. Wait—he did that, in Vaduz. But I was high then._

"Darling?" He whispered, to no avail. Dorian nudged the heavy body until he could slip into a sideways position, spooning them almost comfortably. His manoeuvres to get Klaus's arms to enfold him yielded him a warm blanket of flesh pressing him down on the bedding. _Ugh. Huge wet spot. Thought so. Yet, love cuddling like this afterwards. He is almost relaxed. For ten minutes at least. I can still feel his scars. Should check his back. Don't want to. Have to. No, don't think. Don't ruin it. You've done so well so far. Give yourself—ourselves—a break. A holiday. Pull yourself together, Gloria. You're not a girl._

Dorian sighed, and engaged battle with himself. And slowly lost it. He had to watch his own gruesome retreat, helpless as fear crept up on him, burning a spreading trail from his belly upwards. He felt the corner of his mouth kindle with a fine tremble. _I'll make those little lines worse, this way. Bugger it. Talking about which. What possessed him—so to speak. He never shows overmuch interest in my backside. Too busy with what his own_ derrière _wants. Yes. That could be a way to chase out the blues, maybe. Later? No. I'm not in the mood, really. I think—no, don't. It never helps anyway._

Too soon, Klaus's body won its own fight against relaxation— _slacking, he calls it_ —and the man surfaced, moved his arms away and rolled on his back. _One has to wonder what he finds in the ceiling. Sometimes I think I should decorate it with a few Cocteaus. Give Klaus something to puzzle out._

"Morning, lover."

"It's still not even midnight. What are you talking about?" Klaus sat up and reached for the KvdE-monogrammed silver cigarette case on the bedside table.

"Figure of speech." Dorian pointed at a squat, aqua box. "Open it. Do you like it? Just a little gift. And I bought it, before you ask. Was at Tiffany's and it made me think of you. It goes with the case. It has your monogramme on it, too."

Klaus shrugged as he lifted the lighter out of the box and lit his cigarette with it. "No more foppish than the case. You could have done without the crest."

"My pleasure, darling." _I love you too._ Dorian got up, went for their discarded glasses and poured them another drink. Considered, then topped up his brandy to not-acceptable-to-connoisseurs levels. Dithered with the bottles. Peered at the moonlit rose garden from the window. Pulled the curtains shut. Set their glasses on the bedside table and slipped back into bed. Gulped his drink down, a fine Armagnac perfectly wasted. _I wonder what he'd do to put himself back together if I didn't leave him these moments of privacy. Probably stalk off into the lavatory and rinse himself with bleach. Damn, but I have it bad tonight. Self-pity, even._

Klaus nursed his schnapps, staring at the clear liquid much as he'd stared at the ceiling earlier. Dorian arched his brows at the way Klaus let his cigarette mostly burn unheeded, a deep infrequent pull that was so alien as to be unsettling. Silence crawled on.

Eventually, Klaus rasped, without looking up: "Come on, out with it. I can hear you thinking from here."

Dorian blinked— _Can he? Course he can't. Don't be stupid._ He opened his mouth, and Klaus sucked on the remainder of his cigarette, tensing his neck and jaw muscles. Dorian closed his mouth and hung his head. "Let's not fight, my love. At least, not until dawn. Promise me?"

Klaus nodded slowly, still contemplating his schnapps. He drank up, banged the empty glass on the bedside table, and slipped under the covers. His eyes closed, and the familiar silly humming started.

Dorian exhaled, and made not-acceptable-to-connoisseurs short work of his own brandy. _He'll be out in about ten minutes now. Wish I could fall asleep that quickly._

* * *

In the early hours of dawn, the ticking of the Louis XIV mantelpiece clock countertempoed with the steady beating of Klaus's heart, under the ugly purple scars on his chest. Dorian watched, following the whorls and dips left by what looked like a blunt, curved knife—no finesse in the butchery. Attempting to decipher the random frenzied pattern was a hopeless, useless effort. No point to be found in such senseless violence. No meaning.

_I know one day he will break my heart._

**Author's Note:**

> If you look closely, you can see a quick reference to my story ["From Liechtenstein with Love"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24026461), but you don't have to.
> 
> Originally drafted in 2009, re-worked and posted for the Eroica mailing list's November Challenge 2020 - "crossovers". (Feel free to join us at https://eroicaml.groups.io)


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